


Halving The Compass

by Kawaiibooker



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Developing Friendships, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Road Trips, Vomiting (non-graphic), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), god that's such a good tag, the four pillars of every good witcher fic lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: "The Path demands what it demands. Geralt has stopped fighting that a long time ago."For decades, Geralt has worked, lived and survived alone. Having Jaskier along for the ride proves challenging, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 223





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Episode 2 "Four Marks" and Episode 5 "Bottled Appetites" of the Netflix series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed.

It starts small, unassuming, as most things do.

A few weeks have passed since the 'devil incident', as Jaskier has taken to calling it: Dozens of days in which Geralt nudges his... unlikely companion awake, they pack up camp, travel where the cries for help and posted notices about this beast or that haunting take them, deal with whoever is the cause of it, and set up camp just in time to tumble into exhausted – but well-earned – sleep.

Geralt has been living in this rhythm for decades, nearing a century all too soon. The rise of the sun, the fall of night, the death throes of one creature and the grateful look of another – it occupies the same space in his life, this strange existence in which the witcher finds himself needed and despised and reluctantly admired all at once.

The Path demands what it demands. Geralt has stopped fighting _that_ a long time ago.

Having Jaskier along is different and not-entirely-unwanted and a little terrifying, if Geralt indulged in fear still. The bard seems physically incapable of keeping himself out of trouble (even if he wanted to, and something tells Geralt he does not). Add the perpetual danger of a witcher's fate and, well. It's surprising they are both alive and whole and, in this particular case, singing ballads about it for some unfathomable reason.

Even now, Jaskier is plucking at his lute as he walks. Geralt has gotten used to his melodic humming and the chipper two-step that accompanies Roach's clip-clopping gait, these days. Perhaps he will come to miss it, although he does not voice that thought.

Then, Jaskier opens his mouth.

“Say now, Geralt”, he starts, his palm flat on the strings to steady the remnants of its last note. “How far to the next town? Not that this lovely vista doesn't provide inspiration a-plenty” – a theatrical wave to the bland shrubbery and dirt-and-gravel road they have followed for most of the day – “but my feet, they are _killing_ me.”

Geralt snorts despite himself and beside him, Jaskier flashes him a smile. “Still a few hours away. More if the road turns to mud.” Jaskier's grin evaporates. Geralt shrugs. “Just saying. Smells like rain.”

A mournful groan. “Gods help us. Camp, then?”

It doesn't matter what they say about witchers and heartlessness: There is a measure of hope in there, an unspoken _please_ that makes Geralt consider the man in his fancy clothes and impractical shoes, then the thick clouds gathering on the horizon. Yet their rations are starting to dwindle – without a contract in the next few days, they run the risk of going without entirely.

 _A weak witcher is a dead witcher_ , echoes Vesemir in his mind. He collects Roach's reins and, after a beat–

“There's a cave up ahead”, Geralt concedes, carefully. A very human sigh of relief sounds next to him and somehow, the witcher can't find it in himself to regret the delay.

*

They reach the village with a handful of nuts and smoked rabbit in their bellies. It's a quaint little thing nestled between dense, sprawling forests and the very edge of the marshlands ahead.

There is always work for a witcher in areas like these, where the ways of humans, beasts and those inbetween intersect often. As they make their way to the tavern at its midst, Geralt returns the fleeting glances of those who recognize him from years past. The innkeeper is one of them, and soon enough, Roach is taken off their hands and they are poured their first ale of the night. Geralt drinks, somewhat disgruntled by the stable boy who stammered an oath to take good care of her, and the pointed jab of Jaskier's elbow in his side that translated to _stop terrifying the locals, for Melitele's sake._

Folks here are rough and honest, however, blessed by nature's gifts and made tough by her whims. _The exact opposite of Jaskier_ , Geralt thinks with a private smile over his tankard, but by all means the bard has made himself right at home. Like he personally hails from this very corner of the world... were it not for the bright blue of his doublet, that is.

There won't be much coin to be gained from his ballads this far out, unfortunately. Winter nears; the strings of coin purses will be drawn tight.

“You're a welcome sight, Witcher.”

Despite the deep, weather-worn creases on her face, the innkeeper's voice is warm. Geralt remembers meeting her as a young woman, the curls of her thick black hair pulled out of her face with a kerchief. She still wears it that way, its fabric now thin with wear and torn in places.

The witcher takes a sip of his ale. It's good. “Monster trouble?”

She laughs. “Aye. Same old, same old – nekkers in the woods and drowners in the marshes. Sometimes both, sometimes the other way 'round. I'm sure you remember.”

Humming, Geralt waits. No one would hire a witcher for those, not here. The innkeeper sighs and shakes her head.

“Bigger things on the horizon, I'm 'fraid. Folks sighted a four-legged beast roaming the outskirts of town. Got a hunter here, a farmer there, you see? Not much else to go on. Room and board is on the house, though, if you're willing to look into it. Got nothing else to give, I'm sorry to say.”

Geralt feels the hours on horseback in his shoulders, a line of tension that runs all the way down his back. He shrugs and mutters, “I can't promise anything will come of it”, his hand already reaching for his gloves and the twin swords next to him. His ale he places next to Jaskier's, so it doesn't go to waste after he's finished wooing the crowd.

A grim nod and the innkeeper moves aside to let him through. Before he is entirely out the back door, she gives him a fresh chunk of bread and some dried mutton. “For your troubles. Good luck, Witcher.”

With one last look to Jaskier's back, Geralt nods and steps out into the night.

*

The sun is peaking over the line of trees to the East when the witcher returns and heaves the head of a chort on the inn's counter with one hand. The other is pressed to his thigh, where its twisted horns tore into the muscle.

The tavern is deadly quiet, a handful of patrons struck silent by the empty gaze of the beast. Among them, a certain bard knocks his chair back in his haste to rush to him.

“Geralt!”

Not a moment later, Geralt is almost toppled by a fierce embrace. He barely manages to stave off a pained hiss as it tugs on his wound and by the time he thinks to react... in some way, Jaskier is already holding him at arm's length and taking in the state of his armor, splattered in wet crimson.

“By the blazes, so much blood! Where _were_ you? Are you injured? Please tell me it's not _all_ yours at least–”

“Jaskier”, the witcher interrupts the flood of words and for once, Jaskier _listens_. There's an ache right behind his eyes, begging to be slept off; Geralt hopes his pupils have lost some of their dilation, at least. “I'm fine. Chorts are... messy.”

“'Fine', he says. 'Messy', he says... I was _worried_ about you, you bloody dolt!”

Behind them, the innkeeper clears her throat. A glint of amusement shines in her eyes, but there's sympathy there, as well. “Geralt of Rivia, I owe you my thanks.” She nods at his leg that continues to drip all over her tavern floor. “Rest now. We will speak later.”

To that, Geralt has nothing more to add. He pushes past a sputtering Jaskier and is out the moment his knees hit the soft give of a proper bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry Jaskier honey. He will warm up to you soon, I promise...
> 
> Well, I'm back in Witcher fic land. I'm excited, lemme tell ya. It's been a wild few months and I missed writing so much OOF!!
> 
> Anyhow, this fic. It's set solely within the NX series, so it's a bit different than my other Witcher fics c: I just wanted to vent some Emotions before returning to "A Witcher And His Friends". (My last WIP for that was about Geralt & Dandelion too, so there will be another fic for them in that setting. So much bard content haha)
> 
> Don't expect this to be too polished? It's more of a warm-up than anything else tbh. There will be a chapter two with some angst, it will be tagged accordingly when it's up! Thanks for reading (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by [pyrokaster](https://twitter.com/pyrokaster).
> 
> Please heed the updated tags. Enjoy!

And so it goes, time and time again. The bard sings, his fine-boned fingers dancing on the strings of his lute; the witcher hunts, balancing his life on the edge of his blades.

Met with kindness or hostility, they travel and tend to their trades and survive with an ever-growing collection of songs and scars and stories. It's the kind of adventure Jaskier dreamed of in his corner of Oxenfurt's stuffy library, buried up to his nose in tomes and ancient dust. He always knew his talents would be wasted there – what use are poems and epics and ballads with no audience to entrance?

 _None at all_ , the bard muses. Even the bog they have been traversing for a fortnight has beauty to it, hidden amongst dewy reeds and calm pools of water; the knowledge that danger lurks just beyond that only enhances its meaning.

Jaskier _has_ to be out here, in the world he yearns to capture with his lyrics.

The witcher is a surprise, of course, rare as their kind has become. Jaskier would have expected... well, he can't quite tell. More growling? Gratuitous violence? Word of mouth can be unreliable at the best of times – with witchers, tales of grandeur and saved princesses are shared next to prejudice so vile it poisons everything it touches, drop by drop, rumor by rumor.

It's hard to recall the first time he heard of the siege on Kaer Morhen. Jaskier _does_ remember, with sickening clarity, the moment he realized that Geralt must've known every single witcher they butchered there, trapped like mutts in their kennels.

No wonder the White Wolf stuck to traveling alone for so long.

With stolen glances, he takes in the subtle shift of Geralt's swords on his back with every step he takes, and the way he illustrates something he is telling Roach with his hands. He has taken to leading her for an hour or two every day – most days, he stays a few paces ahead and sometimes, he walks alongside Jaskier.

“Gotta rest her back”, the man had grumbled when asked; Jaskier watches as he talks to his horse in low murmurs, and smiles.

Only a mere few weeks have passed since Jaskier had chewed him out for being a reckless idiot (which, to be fair, was _entirely_ justified; there are acceptable amounts of blood and then there is _that_ ). And, well, the witcher _is_ trying, in his own, brusque way. Just the night before, Geralt had locked eyes with Jaskier and said, “There is a deer close-by”, and only after an extended bout of silence did it occur to him that Geralt was waiting for him to acknowledge that.

And so the bard had nodded, the witcher had gone to hunt, and they made themselves a fine meal of venison and a shared bottle of ale, the last of their reward for the chort.

The truth of the matter is: Geralt of Rivia is just... private. Grumpy, sure, but there is a reason and a rhyme to it and _that_ Jaskier can understand, even if he wishes their interactions were less like stumbling in the shadows until he trips over another unwritten rule that makes a tragic amount of sense.

Jaskier allows himself a wistful sigh. On the list of his many virtues, patience is sadly on the very, very end. And yet, Julian Alfred Pankratz did _not_ leave behind the trappings of noble titles and endless lectures to be intimidated by a grouchy hunter of beasts.

A grouchy hunter of beasts who is now looking at him. “It's getting dark”, Geralt states somewhat unnecessarily – and while the thought to tease him about it crosses his mind, Jaskier would rather accept the offer to stop for the day.

The stars twinkle bright and high in the sky that evening and, despite the day of travel, the bard realizes his feet do not ache at all.

*

“Geralt? You awake?”

“...Hm?”

“I've been thinking–”

“Oh no.”

“Ha bloody ha. _I'm_ the jester in our relationship, I thought we had established–”

“Jaskier.”

“Right, sorry. I'm wondering... You mentioned this old witcher once. Ves...?”

“Vesemir.”

“Ah. Yes, him. Vesemir. Well, I'm curious. You know, how that works.”

“Speak plainly, bard.”

“Alright, alright, no reason to get snappy. Just how old is he, exactly?”

“Vesemir?”

“ _Yes_ , Geralt, Vesemir.”

“Hm. Hard to say.”

“So?”

“A few centuries? Ask him yourself. Doubt he keeps count, though.”

“Ask him. I can just... do that? Wait, did you say _centuries_?”

“He's still on the Path, some summers. Bound to cross ours eventually.”

“Huh. That's good to know, I guess. And you?”

“Hm?”

“You have white hair. Are you _centuries_ old, too?”

“Hah, no.”

“...”

“...What?”

“You're impossible to talk to, you know that?”

*

“Jaskier?”

“Mmm...”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“Mmh? I'm awake. I think... What is it?”

“Ninety-five.”

“Whuh?”

“My age. You asked...”

“Oh. Ninety...?”

“...five, yeah.”

“Wow. You're old.”

“...”

“Looking _really good_ for a century, though.”

“Heh. Thanks?”

“Mhm...”

*

“He's my father, you know? Vesemir.”

“...”

“Not by blood but... Raised me like it. My brothers, too.”

“...”

“People think witchers don't have that. A family, that is.”

“...”

“We do. Those who are left. We're still here.”

“Geralt, I...”

“Go back to sleep, Jaskier. I'll keep watch.”

*

The peace does not last. It never does.

Strong hands shake him out of deep, blissful sleep. “Jaskier”, a rough voice says quietly. “ _Jaskier._ Wake up, c'mon.”

A complaint is quick to rise to his lips and– “Woah”, Jaskier gasps instead, barely conscious enough to register anything other than the glint of yellow eyes in the dark and the sliver of fear it sends up his spine–

_Geralt._

There's a flash of emotion in those eyes, worry or annoyance or uncertainty; the witcher lets him go.

The moon is out, almost full and framing everything in a cold, pale glow. Geralt busies himself with _something_ – it's hard to see anything beyond vague shapes and blurred shadows – but when he tells Jaskier “Get up” and “Move”, oh, Jaskier _moves_.

That thread of steel in Geralt's voice? The past few months have taught him one thing, and they did so well: It means trouble, the life-and-death, leap-into-the-unknown-or-be-silenced-forever kind, the kind they write stories about.

Tragic ones, ending in carnage and despair. The ones Jaskier does _not_ want to be part of, thank you very much.

The bard is dressed and packed and by Geralt's side in the matter of moments. “Nekkers”, the witcher mutters, pulling Roach's cinch tight. He straps Jaskier's pack and lute to the saddle, then pulls out a dagger from his boot and holds it by the blade. “A lot of them. Here.”

Jaskier takes it, its hilt worn and strangely comfortable in his palm. It's heavy. _Silver?_ Finally, his brain catches up to what's happening.

“Nekkers...? Here? Wait– Geralt, _wait_ , what are you doing? What about you?”

Wordlessly, the witcher pushes Roach's reins into his hands – shaking, human, _useless_ hands – and does not look at him. His jaw is clenched tight, lips thin.

“I'll follow. Go.”

“But–”

“ _Go_ , Jaskier!”

And Melitele curse him, Jaskier goes. Roach leaps into motion the instant his bottom hits her saddle and by the time Jaskier can risk a look over his shoulder, even Geralt's white hair has been swallowed by the night.

*

The sky is tinged a delicate pink. Inevitably, morning breaks.

“You fool.”

One by one, shy beams of light start spilling over the horizon, touching the mist that curls around the trees, crawls over the water's smooth surface–

Jaskier resents it with every fiber of his being.

There he sits, knees drawn up to his chest and glaring at the silver dagger stuck in the ground a few inches from his feet. Beside him, Roach grazes on the few bits of grass she can reach; she hasn't walked far from him, ears dancing restlessly.

Waiting, just as he is. It's been hours.

“You utter, bloody _coward._ ”

It feels good to voice these thoughts instead of letting them turn and turn incessantly in his mind. It's _something_ and something is more than _nothing_ , which is what he has been doing otherwise. Nothing at all.

Jaskier grabs the dagger and is back on his feet before he knows it.

“Go, Jaskier. Leave the fighting to me, Jaskier. Where the hell _are you_ , then?!”

It's a heated whisper, no more. Even furious, Jaskier is aware that the creatures of the bog would love to grab him and gnaw at his bones like a tasty little treat. Isn't that what those nekkers would've done, as well?

Is it what they're doing to Geralt, now that his companion has fled and left him behind?

Gods, Jaskier is tired – exhausted from a short night and fear and riding as far as Roach would take him. Just a few yards ahead, the soft morning sun illuminates gentle hills and there, in the distance, what looks like a loose assortment of houses. A hamlet, perhaps.

Only a day's worth of travel and they could've left this accursed bog behind entirely.

Jaskier rubs at his eyes; they burn with unshed tears. _Fuck this._ Roach blinks at him. “Fuck this”, he repeats, voice grim with resolve as he slips the dagger through a loop in his doublet and reaches for the saddle's pommel. It takes a few attempts – his fingers are near-numb from the cold, and his body aches in places he didn't know it could – but soon, he's guiding Roach out of the clearing that had been their home for one very miserable night.

The road is easy to be found and initially, its winding ways can only lead either deeper inside or out of the bog. To Jaskier, the forlorn, moss-covered trees have lost their touch. He points the mare towards their embrace regardless, towards the witcher they have yet to return to him.

Once inside, Jaskier is uncomfortably aware that he doesn't actually know where he is. At night, everything had been the same shade of terrifying; now, the dim light of day reveals a myriad of ponds, overgrown trails and wood in varying stages of decay. He closes his eyes and _listens_. The underbrush rustles with the busy life of critters unseen. Above, the faint chatter of birds. _Good_ , Geralt would say, _it's the silence you have to be wary of._

Jaskier had never wished for that silence more than this moment. Wherever he is, it's nowhere near where Geralt is.

Absently, he rubs at his chest and the sharp twinge of longing there. Forgotten are the hurting feet and the stones poking him through his bedroll. There is little Jaskier wouldn't give to be back at their humble camp, fighting off sleep to hear every hopeful word the witcher had said. How he aches to take that rare softness and keep it safe from the world's cruel hands.

It doesn't feel right, to be out here without him. Alas, onwards they go, deep enough that the road loses definition.

Then, Roach picks up her head. Her ears are pointed, her neck thick with tension. Jaskier blinks in surprise and follows her gaze. “What is it?”

The mare takes a step off the path, then another. Her big equine eyes are white with fear and yet–

Jaskier's hand drops to the hilt of the dagger, a reassuring weight at his side. “Let's go”, he tells her quietly and while his stomach is all-too-suddenly tied in anxious knots, his voice is calm. All he can hear is the dull sound of hooves on dirt and the frantic beating of his heart.

There: the reeds move, soundlessly. Ripples appear in the water. Roach trembles. Dagger drawn, Jaskier whispers: “Calm now, Roach. Stay with me.”

Out of the wild tumbles the witcher, face pale and hair wild. There is a bloodied sword in his hand. Jaskier learns to breathe again.

“Geralt!”

Then the man sways and falls to his knees. Jaskier gasps, “No”, jumps off Roach, uncaring where his feet land as long as they can carry him to Geralt's side. “No no no, not like this, witcher, don't you _dare_ –”

His hands catch Geralt before he can finish collapsing. He's heavy in Jaskier's grip, as close to limp as the bard has ever seen him. When Jaskier tilts back his chin – slippery with blood dripping from his lips, and blazes, he will have _words_ with Geralt, _again_ – his eyes are half-lidded and pitch black, bruised veins radiating from there almost down to his neck.

“Just how many potions did you have? Those can't be healthy– What am I talking about, they're for witchers, _of course_ they're not–”

“Jaskier...”

Geralt's voice is raspy to the point of being unintelligible. Jaskier shuts up for the span of one breath and–

A growl, emerging from the bog itself.

Jaskier manages to see two dots of red and a row of pointed teeth before, by some animal instinct, the body in his grasp shudders and Geralt's hand tightens around his sword.

Yet the creature is fast approaching and the bard – silver dagger raised and teeth bared – snarls, “Enough!”, and strikes it in the chest. The nekker gurgles its way through a wet screech and staggers, claws outstretched; heart in his throat, Jaskier keeps blindly stabbing it until it stops altogether. With a panicked kick, he pushes it away from them and watches it splash, lifeless, into the water.

Jaskier pants, eyes wild as they dart about. No movement. A sudden hush falls, then – the clear, piercing cry of a thrush. Other, shyer calls follow.

All tension drains from Jaskier and he melts into a miserable heap, holding up Geralt as much as he clings to him, too.

“F-fucking nekkers.”

His fingers tremble as he brushes back a few muddied strands of Geralt's hair; it's a relief to see the other is still conscious, if barely so. They share a few breaths until Jaskier's heart has calmed in his chest, four beats for one of Geralt's.

“We're never stepping foot into the marshes again, you hear me, Geralt? Never. Roach is with me on this, so it's two against one.”

There's barely any levity left in his words but Jaskier tries, for Geralt. His touch is still gentle, however, the pad of his thumb tracing the darkness under Geralt's eyes in careful arches.

The witcher huffs. His lids flutter, slip shut.

“Hey, no sleeping just yet. We still have to–”

With one violent lurch, Geralt turns to the side and empties the contents of his stomach.

“– Oh. O-okay, take your time, then. Roach, remind me to leave the puking out of the song, yeah? Okay. Gods, I hate this place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing else to say for myself.
> 
> EDIT: Actually, I do. The series can rip The Voice of Reason 4 out of my cold dead hands AND ALSO I gave up trying to make the timeline work. That is all bye
> 
> [tumblr](https://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/kawaiibooker)


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